A Trying Time for Kings
by nightengale'sdawn
Summary: Edmund is trying to be good after returning from Narnia, really, but did his siblings and a stupid cold have to make it so hard? Set after The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, mostly movie-verse. In this story the Pevensie children go to a local school rather than boarding.
1. Chapter 1

Edmund Pevensie sat slumped in his chair, arms crossed firmly against his chest as if they would force the pressure building in his lungs from escaping as a cough. His efforts were futile, however, and a second later he dissolved into a fit, burying his mouth into his jumper to keep the germs from spraying across the school's office. He was acutely aware that at the moment he looked very unlike the King Edmund the Just he'd so recently been accustomed to calling himself, but he also found he didn't very much care. Even kings can't look dignified while ill.

Once the coughing fit had passed, Edmund felt a tickle dancing in in his sinus. He pulled a somewhat-soiled handkerchief from his short trouser pocket and blew his nose forcefully into it, sending a chill creeping up his spine. With a rueful sigh, he silently cursed the much-to-large gap between the hem of his shorts and top of his socks as goose-flesh appeared at his knees. Peter was so lucky that his uniform had long trousers.

A disapproving "tsk" brought Edmund from his ruminations and attracted his attention to the school secretary, who sat behind a desk a few feet away. "Are you sure you wouldn't like for me to call and have someone pick you up?" the silver-haired woman asked.

"Quite sure." Edmund wondered how his voice could sound congested and hoarse all at once. "I'll walk home with my siblings. It's nearly the end of the day."

"Well, I suppose Peter will make sure you get home alright," the secretary muttered, returning her gaze to the paperwork cluttering her desk.

Edmund huffed, irritating his already sore throat. He was perfectly capable of making it home all by himself, thank you very much. Hadn't he defeated the Telmarian army alone when Peter was busy settling a trade agreement with the centaurs? Hadn't he single-handedly negotiated peace with the Northmen after they threatened to burn Cair Paravel to ruins? But this woman didn't know that, Edmund reminded himself. Still, he couldn't help feeling resentful at how she, and everyone else, his teacher, Mrs. Macready, even Professor Kirke, treated him and his siblings like the children they were in England rather than the respected and powerful monarchs they'd been in Narnia.

Edmund sniffed, contemplating if his sinuses were stuffed-up enough to blow again, or if he should wait. Another tickle decided for him and he brought his handkerchief to his face just in time to catch the sneeze. This blasted cold certainly wasn't helping matters. Just now the secretary was looking at him as if he were some wounded puppy!

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. As students started to bustle in the hall outside the office, Edmund began to push himself up out of his chair.

"Where do you think you're going?" the secretary asked without looking up. Blast! Edmund had never encountered anyone with such mysterious powers outside of Narnia.

"I usually meet my brother and sisters just outside the front door."

"Usually, but not today. I sent a student with a note to Peter's teacher, he'll be down to get you soon."

Edmund frowned and dropped back in his chair with a thump. He did _not_ need to be gotten, and certainly not by Peter. Before he could say anything on the matter, though, his older brother knocked on the door to the office.

Since their return from Narnia, Peter had had what The Macready called a 'growth spurt' and acquired a pair of round, tortoise shell glasses, both of which made him look irritatingly older than 13. He'd never had any trouble with his eyes when they were kings, of course, but then here he spent so much time holed up in his room or Professor Kirke's library, a textbook an inch from his face, it was no wonder if anything farther away was blurry.

With his spectacles on, however, Peter had no problem spotting his brother in the corner. "Ed! Goodness, you look awful."

Edmund believed it - he did feel awful, after all - but he didn't particularly appreciate being told so. "It's just a cold."

Peter raised his eyebrows but said nothing. The secretary, however, decided to elaborate: "His teacher sent him down here about half an hour ago. We had a matron, you know, before the war, and nobody's quite sure what to do about sick students now . . . anyway he's almost certainly running a fever, though I haven't got a thermometer to see how high. A few others from his class have been home sick this week, I suppose he's caught the same thing."

"And what do they have?" Peter asked as Edmund scowled. He hated being talked about like he wasn't there.

The secretary shrugged and gave a wane smile. "I'm not sure, dear. Anyway, you'd best get going. Feel better, Edmund."

"Thank you, ma'am," Ed muttered as his stood and slipped into his coat. He pulled his collar up to cover a few coughs, then followed Peter out of the office. They walked silently through the now mostly empty hall and met Susan and Lucy by the door.

"Sorry you're not feeling well, Ed," Susan offered as they began the long walk back to Professor Kirke's house.

Lucy nodded in agreement. "I'd give you a drop from my cordial, if I could."

Edmund smiled a bit. "Thanks, Lu, but it'd be a waste to use even the scantest amount on a silly cold. I'll go to bed early tonight, and be better by tomorrow, I bet."

Peter looked at him skeptically. "Mrs. Williams said she thought you had a fever," he pointed out. "Colds don't cause fevers."

"I didn't know you were a doctor."

"Well, I'm a healer, and Peter's right," Lucy said, drawing her 8-year-old self up to full height, as if trying to regain the regal air she'd had as Queen.

Edmund snorted, and struggled not to wince as the sound grated against his throat. "You _were_ a healer, Lu. We aren't kings and queens anymore."

"Not with that attitude, your highness," Lucy replied with a small curtsy and a giggle.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "Not with any attitude." He didn't know why he was acting so surly; he'd stopped being so mean-spirited towards his siblings since their time in Narnia, but this blasted cold was really getting to him.

A cool October breeze danced along next to the Pevensie children, burrowing up the bottom of Edmund's coat and making him shiver, his teeth chattering. "Awfully cold for this time of year, isn't it?" he asked, hoping to change the subject. To emphasize the point, he crossed his arms across his chest, pulling his coat tighter around him.

In response, Peter, Susan and Lucy shared a glance before murmuring agreement. Edmund didn't notice that all three had their coats unbuttoned, and would have never guessed they'd been thinking how nice it was that summer's warmth hadn't yet completely faded.

In her usual militaristic manner, The Macready sentenced Edmund to bed with a thermometer beneath his tongue and a hot water bottle at his feet the moment she saw him.

 _Really_ , Edmund thought as she tucked an extra blanket around his shoulders, _I'm not as sick as that._

The evidence, however, agreed with The Macready: a fever of just under 39° (102.2°F); a dry, hacking cough; sore throat; congestion; chills; malaise. As much as Edmund hated to admit it, he was sick, and he probably wasn't going to be better in the morning.

The Macready even made Peter move his things to a different bedroom so he wouldn't fall ill as well. Her unprecedented involvement with the Pevensie children's affairs surprised them at first, but she soon revealed the motivation for her intervention: "One sick child is bad enough. The last thing I or the Professor wants is a houseful of them."

Edmund spent his evening rather miserably, feeling progressively worse as the hours passed. Besides the intensifying coughs, sneezes and chills, he was excruciatingly bored. He felt far too ill to attempt any of his school homework, his siblings had been forbidden from entering his room, and an attempt to read a book had ended only in a headache that still throbbed. Even sleeping wasn't an option; though he was quickly becoming more and more exhausted, every position he tried was too uncomfortable to maintain for more than a few moments.

The Macready brought the patient some soup on a tray just after dinnertime, but Edmund couldn't manage more than a few spoonfuls before his stomach began to object.

"Finish the bowl," The Macready ordered impatiently, "or you'll be hungry before breakfast."

Edmund highly doubted that, but didn't dare argue. The Macready was at least as powerful and twice as determined as any army he'd fought in Narnia. In his weakened state and without his Calvary behind him, he knew he couldn't win.

The soup came out the victor, however, because when it was still just under half full, Edmund declared, "if I eat anymore I'm going to be sick."

The Macready searched his face for a hint that he was lying, but his words were truth. Reluctantly, she cleared away the tray and handed Edmund a cup containing a foul-smelling and grotesquely-colored concoction.

"What's that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It's medicine. Drink it, all of it."

Edmund held the dose in front of him and looked at it hesitantly, plotting his strategy. Downing it quickly would mean a few extremely unpleasant seconds, but sipping slowly would simply prolong the torture. Before he could change his mind, he tipped the cup back and swallowed the liquid all in one gulp, gagging afterwards.

"Heavens, child, learn to grow up. It isn't that bad."

 _You're not the one who had to swallow it_ , Edmund thought as he handed the cup back. _And besides, who are you to tell King Edmund the Just to "grow up?"_

As far as Edmund could tell, the medicine did nothing but leave a bad taste in his mouth, one he couldn't get rid of no matter how many sips of water he took from the glass on his nightstand. The coughing, sneezing, and so forth were all still present in full strength as he tried to sleep a few hours later.

Like a devilish enemy, his symptoms would lie in wait as his sore muscles slowly relaxed in a position, then strike just as he was about to drift off, bringing him back to full consciousness with a painful, hacking cough or a sneeze practically strong enough to propel him to the side. Edmund was recovering from a particularly nasty coughing fit, his face buried in his pillow, when the door creaked open. He didn't bother looking up, figuring The Macready had come to yell at him for keeping the whole house awake. Instead of a fierce reprimand, however, Edmund heard light footsteps approaching his bed, then felt a small hand shaking his shoulder.

"Ed? Are you ok?"

Edmund raised his head to see Lucy's eyes locked with his. She was dressed in a loose-fitting nightgown and her hair was tousled; clearly, she'd been asleep. He considered answering sarcastically, but decided against it.

"Not really," he croaked. "I feel pretty awful. It's alright, though. You can go back to bed."

Lucy ignored this last bit and instead reached out to feel her brother's forehead. "You're hot as fire!" she gasped.

"It's not as bad as that," Edmund replied, swatting at her hand blindly. He'd never get to sleep if she stayed.

"Have you been able to sleep?" Lucy asked, her voice taking on a tone more fitting to a worried nurse than an 8-year-old sister. "I heard you coughing from across the hall."

"Did I wake you?" Edmund felt his chest clench as Lucy nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"I know that, but I'm worried." She sighed deeply. "I wish I had my cordial."

"So do I. The medicine The Macready gave me was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted." Lucy laughed as Edmund smiled, though it quickly turned to grimace as another coughing fit creeped up, this one even worse than before. Deep, hacking coughs rattled through his chest and made him curl up in pain. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip to keep from crying out.

"Edmund . . ." Lucy trailed off, fear making her voice shake. "I'll go fetch Mrs. Macready."

"No, Lu, it's fine," Edmund insisted, forcing his eyes open as the fit finally subsided. "I'm no worse than when she brought me dinner."

"If-if you're sure," Lucy said, after a hesitation. Edmund nodded.

"I'm sure. You can go back to bed. I'll probably be better in the morning."

Lucy raised a singular eyebrow in silence.

"Not completely better, but a little better," Edmund clarified. "Mum says things are always a little better in the morning, remember?"

Lucy nodded. "I wish she was here," she whispered. "We got so used to being away from her and Dad in Narnia, but it's still weird to be here without them." Edmund thought he saw a few tears escape from Lucy's eyes. "But I suppose that's silly," she added hastily.

"It's not silly. Not at all." With tremendous effort, Edmund pushed himself up a little and took his sister's hand. "I wish Mum and Dad were here, too. I think Narnia made it a little harder, in a way. It's been fifteen years for us since we were last together, but only a few months for them."

Lucy wiped at her face with her free hand, attempting to banish her tears. "I think you're right." She giggled. "How silly, Ed, I came in here to see if you were alright and now I'm just crying!"

"Don't worry about it," Edmund gave his sister's hand a squeeze. "Now go back to bed. I don't want to make you sick, too."

"Ok," Lucy agreed, squeezing back. "And feel better, King Edmund the Just. The kingdom won't be right without you."

"Aye, Queen Lucy the Valiant, a thousand thanks. Now goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Author's Note: Hello everyone! This is my first time uploading a story, I hope you're enjoying it so far. :) I have most of this story written, just editing now. I'll aim for a new chapter every week, so stay tuned. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Edmund woke the next morning feeling much worse. His cough had intensified, both in frequency and severity, he shook with chills, and a colossal headache now added to the rest of his miseries. Glancing at the clock on his nightstand, he realized his siblings would just be getting ready for school. By straining his ears, he thought he could hear somebody rustling around across the hall, but his head felt stuffed with cotton; all sounds were muffled.

His suspicions were confirmed, however, when his older sister slipped into the bedroom a few minutes later.

"Hi Susan," Edmund tried to say, but the words grated harshly against his throat, producing only a hoarse and squeaky voice. He winced at the pain and rubbed his neck tiredly.

"You sound awful," Susan said bluntly, coming over to the bed. She reached out and felt her younger brother's forehead. "And you feel very warm."

"Some people say hi."

"Please don't talk; you'll only make your throat worse." Susan began fussing with Ed's blankets. "But good morning. I'd ask how you're feeling, but I think it's pretty obvious the answer is 'terrible.'"

Much as Edmund hated to admit it, Susan was right. He did feel terrible, and not the slightest bit better, as he'd promised Lucy.

"I'll tell Mrs. Macready to send for a doctor," Susan continued. "And Lucy to ask your teacher to write down the assignments you'll be missing today."

At this Edmund groaned. Wasn't getting to miss school one of the few good things about being sick? Not that he wasn't a good student, but who wouldn't be glad to miss a few days of homework?

Before Susan could suggest any more fun activities, like watching paint dry or having a tooth pulled, The Macready came in a shooed her away.

"Go on now! Didn't I tell you and your siblings to stay out? Well, out!" The middle-aged woman turned to Edmund. "Honestly, child, you'd think she wants to get sick. At least the other two have a grain of sense."

Edmund smiled to himself. He didn't think he'd be telling The Macready about Lucy's midnight visit.

"Now, then. Are you feeling any better?"

Edmund opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything his breath hitched and he was overcome with another coughing fit. He buried his face into his pajama jacket as the hacks racked his thin frame, trying desperately to catch his breath.

"Easy, child, easy." The Macready rubbed circles on his back as the fit slowly subsided. "I'll take that as a no, then?" she asked once his breathing finally returned to normal.

Edmund shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am," he squeaked.

"It is what it is," The Macready sighed. She drew a thermometer from her dress pocket and stuck it in Edmund's mouth. "I'll go get you another glass of water, and a cup of tea," she announced, picking the glass up off the nightstand. "I'll be back in a minute."

Edmund nodded and snuggled against his pillow, feeling very sorry for himself. The Macready wasn't a very good nurse. Whenever he'd been sick before, his mum had sung lullabies to him and read Winnie-the-Pooh poems and brought the wireless into his room so he wouldn't be bored.

Well, he was too old for Winnie-the-Pooh, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to hear The Macready sing, but he wouldn't mind listening to the Light Programme for a few hours on the wireless.

Edmund shivered at a sudden chill and burrowed deeper under the covers. Mum also used to make him tea with as much honey as he wanted, and dig out Rupert, Edmund's ratty old stuffed bear, from the back of his closet and never, ever tell Peter or Susan or Lucy that he wanted it to sleep with.

And in Narnia, the healers at Cair Paravel were the gentlest creatures Aslan created. The few times Edmund had been ill there, the healers had provided him with gallons of soothing herbal tea, and his siblings had entertained him with songs and books and riddles. Lucy was an especially gifted nurse; her cordial provided physical healing, but her soft and tender hands and countenance healed the spirit.

The Macready returned carrying a tray with a glass of water, a cup of tea and a plate of dry toast. "Well," she said, setting the tray down over Edmund's legs, "let's see, then." She removed the thermometer from his lips and held it up to the light. "Tsk, tsk. 39.3° (102.7°F). Fevers are supposed to be lower in the mornings, child, don't you know that?"

Edmund huffed in response. It was just like The Macready to suggest he had purposely raised his temperature, simply to complicate her day. In defiance, he rolled over and jerked the covers up over his head, but the shifting quilt knocked the tray off balance. The glass, cup of tea and plate crashed against the hardwood floor, the wooden tray tumbling after it.

For a moment Edmund and The Macready stared at the broken heap, watching as tea from the cup dispersed, creating a large stain.

"Now look what you've done!" The Macready finally snapped, narrowing her eyes at Edmund. He diverted his gaze downward and sank further beneath the covers.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything, now, does it?" The Macready stooped to gather the pieces of shattered dishes into her apron. "But that's all children have to say these days, isn't it? Sorry this and sorry that. Never mind that they've done it a hundred times, another sorry and they think it's magically right again. If I had tried that growing up, my father would've bent me over his knee for a well-deserved paddle!"

Edmund swallowed hard, wincing at the pain it caused his throat. The Macready wouldn't spank him, would she? Certainly not while he was sick, and besides, he hadn't meant to knock over the tray.

"It was an accident. I-I just wasn't hungry."

"Oh, is that what it was?" The Macready up-righted the tray and dumped the dish fragments on top. She began sopping up the spilled tea and water with a napkin. "You didn't want the breakfast I so kindly prepared, so you thought it best to throw it on the floor?"

"No, that isn't what I meant . . ."

"Children are spoiled rotten these days," The Macready muttered, ignoring Edmund's interjection. "All their short lives they've been given all they need, all they want, and are they grateful? Of course not. They just take, take, take without a second thought. Without a hint of gratitude, without a single consideration of the sacrifices made for them, they just whine for more. Well, I'm sick of it, and I'd wager I'm not the only one."

Suddenly Edmund remembered the train station in London. How he'd ducked away from his mother's kiss, and the pained look she'd had afterwards. He'd thought he was too old to be kissed by his mother in public, but Susan didn't duck away. Peter didn't duck away. Lucy certainly didn't, but then she'd also been a tearful mess. Of course she had been; the bombs had destroyed so many houses nearby, there were rumors the shelters weren't truly safe, the tube could only protect so many people . . .

Edmund sniffed and blinked quickly, trying to banish the tears that had materialized without warning. He'd tried so hard to behave better since he and his siblings returned from Narnia, but it was no use. He was still a nuisance, still the problematic sibling; that hadn't changed. Nothing had changed.

The Macready scooped up the now-sopping toast with the equally soggy napkin and piled the whole mess atop the tray. "And now there will be a stain. Honestly, it's no wonder so many women are eager to saddle their spoiled, greedy little swine on the unsuspecting."

And now the tears spilled over. Nothing had changed, but he wasn't that bad, was he? Edmund tried to wipe them away before The Macready could notice, but it was a futile attempt.

"I'll have none of that, you're far too old to be crying." She stood with the tray and began walking towards the door. "The doctor will have to come, I suppose, and you wouldn't want him to think you're so immature."

"Yes, ma'am," Edmund whispered, though his lip continued to quiver.

With a satisfied nod, The Macready left and closed the door firmly behind her. Edmund bit his lip and rolled over to face the wall, bringing his knees up against his chest.

He wasn't that bad, was he?


	3. Chapter 3

"Open wide and say 'ah!'"

Edmund did so, although his 'ah' sounded more like 'eih,' and Dr. Gordon pressed down his tongue with a flat wooden stick, shining a small electric torch down his throat.

"Ah, yes. I imagine that's quite painful. It doesn't look like Scarlet Fever, though, or tonsillitis. Flu, perhaps?" Dr. Gordon began to withdraw his instruments, but paused and moved the tongue depressor to the side, retracting Edmund's cheek. "Aha! Koplik's Spots."

"What?" The Macready asked from her post by the door.

"Small white spots on the inside of the cheek," Dr. Gordon explained, now truly removing the tongue depressor and torch. "They're generally an early sign of the measles. Have you ever had them before, Edmund?"

Edmund shook his head. He remembered Peter and Susan having the measles years ago, but their mum had made sure Edmund and Lucy didn't catch it. His older siblings had been very sick, he remembered, which didn't bode well for his prospects.

"The measles!" The Macready cried. "But for heaven's sake, he's just been sneezing and coughing."

"That's how it starts," Dr. Gordon said, beginning to pack his supplies into a large, black doctor's bag. "We're lucky to have caught the Koplik's Spots; they usually disappear only a few hours after they emerge. You can expect to see the classic rash in a day or two."

"Well, what medicines can you prescribe?"

Dr. Gordon gave The Macready a wane smile. "Paracetamol may help with the fever, but otherwise I'm afraid all I can do is suggest bed rest and plenty of fluids. Let the illness run its course, and Edmund will be up and about in a week or so, perhaps a bit longer."

A week! Edmund thought, By Aslan, that wouldn't do. And on top of it all, adults were talking about him like he wasn't there again. He was King Edmund the Just! He should have a say in all this, even if his throat did hurt too much to speak.

The Macready, however, didn't seem to agree. "Thank you, doctor," she said, completely ignoring Edmund, "can you show yourself out?"

"Certainly. Feel better Edmund!" Dr. Gordon called as he walked out the door.

"Thank you," Edmund croaked, wincing at the words.

"The measles, for heaven's sake," The Macready muttered, busying herself with straightening the many things on Edmund's nightstand: the glass of water, the thermometer, and now a little bell since he couldn't call out very loudly. "Well, child, I daresay you'll be in that bed for a good long time to come, so you'd best make yourself comfortable."

Having been made to sit up by Dr. Gordon, Edmund slid back down beneath his covers, letting out a sigh of relief as the warm quilt hugged his shoulders. For a split second he thought he saw The Macready's face soften, but shook his head slightly to banish such a ridiculous thought.

"Have your brother and sisters had the measles before?" she asked, her usual stiff tone intact.

"Peter and Susan, not Lucy." He took a handkerchief from his pocket blew his nose. Oh, how he wished it was just a cold! He most certainly did not want to be confined to bed for a whole week. He might die of boredom by the time he got better.

Seeming to read his mind, The Macready commanded, "And don't you get any ideas about getting out of bed to amuse yourself. You'll only make yourself worse."

Edmund harrumphed. She was right, of course, and besides that he was far too tired to imagine embarking on a journey much farther than the loo, but she didn't have to rub it in. Trying to push it out of his mind, Edmund buried his face against his pillow and willed himself to fall asleep. This was going to be a long week.

* * *

A rash appeared behind Edmund's ears early the next morning, and quickly spread across his face and down his neck. The Macready amended her earlier instructions and allowed Peter and Susan to visit, but Lucy's presence remained forbidden. Edmund was tempted to tell her that Lucy had visited the first night he was sick and would probably get the measles anyway, but he didn't feel like stirring up trouble.

After all, the measles were perfectly capable of doing that without any help from him.

Thwump!

Edmund jolted out of his sleep to see Susan standing next to his bed. Her hands were on her hips, and she was looking in front of her with a very satisfied smile on her face.

"What are you doing?" Edmund croaked, reaching subconsciously to rub his neck.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" Susan turned to face him, then batted away his hand. "Don't scratch, it'll just make the rash worse. And try not to talk, Dr. Gordon said that will make your throat worse."

Edmund wrinkled his nose. "You didn't answer my question." He shivered at a sudden chill and pulled the quilt closer around him. His fever had been rising as the rash spread, leaving him constantly cold and cranky. The Macready had, with much grumbling, brought him a hot water bottle that morning, but by then it wasn't any warmer than his icy feet.

"Lucy gave me the list of assignments from your teacher, so I gathered a few books you might find useful for completing them." Susan gestured to the side, and Edmund turned his head to find a huge stack on his nightstand. There must have fifty books piled up, all with positively vile names like 'Modern English History' and 'Shakespearean Sonnets Made Easy.' One or two of his own textbooks were mixed in, but most were entirely unfamiliar and seemed likely to be boring.

"I think the best place to start," Susan continued, oblivious to Edmund's total lack of enthusiasm, "is with proper essay structure. According to your teacher's note, your class is learning about what belongs in an introduction, and I think this will be very helpful to you." She stood on tip toes to slide a book off the top of the pile. "According to the dust jacket, _The Times_ calls this 'a must-have for any student.'"

"I don't feel well enough to do homework," Edmund said, his words quickly dissolving into coughs to emphasize his point. He probably would have said as much whether it was true or not, but in this case it certainly was.

"Yes, yes, I know you're under the weather, but I don't want you to fall behind." Susan pushed the book under his nose. "Chapter three, I think, is most relevant."

Edmund rolled his eyes, but burrowed his arm out from beneath the blankets and took the book. He flipped open the front cover and saw it was a school-issued textbook. A short list of names were written on the stamped lines, along with issued and returned condition, which the third entry had deemed "tear-inducingly dull." Edmund might have laughed if he hadn't immediately afterward seen the fifth entry:

 _Peter Pevensie . . . . Good/Fair_

"This is Peter's textbook!" he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Well, yes." Susan turned back to the pile of books and began to run her fingers along the spine of a green volume with gold lettering. "But just think how much you can learn from it, Ed. Think how impressed your teacher will be."

"I won't learn anything from it, it's too difficult!" Edmund said, his voice cracking on the last word. He coughed into one hand and held the book out with the other.

Susan wouldn't take it. Instead she folded her arms across her chest and assumed a facial expression befitting a war-determined general. "How could you possibly know, you haven't read a single page."

She may have been prepared for battle, but so was he. Edmund narrowed his eyes and puffed out his chest, swallowing the inevitable urge to cough. "It's not intended for . . ."

"Yes, I know it was written with seventh form students in mind, but you'll just have to rise to the challenge." Susan glanced back at her stack of books. "School is meant to challenge."

"Maybe for you." Edmund dropped Peter's textbook on the floor, then rolled himself over onto his stomach and pulled the quilt over his head. "I'm going back to sleep. Goodnight."

But Susan was still undeterred. "For _everyone_ ," she hissed. Edmund heard her skirt rustle as, he assumed, she bent over to pick up Peter's book. "But if you don't stay on top of things, the next thing you know you'll be hopelessly behind. Now, you're going to read about introduction paragraphs, and then practice your maths, and then review the Hundred Years' War for history class, and _then_ you can go back to sleep."

"I'm sick!"

"With the measles, Edmund," Susan said, ignoring his forced pity-fishing coughs. "I had them a few years ago, they really weren't that bad. I don't know what's gotten into you lately, insisting on being babied like this."

"I do not want to be babied!" Edmund threw back the covers and rolled around. The movement had been too fast, though, and the room began to spin around him, speeding faster and faster. He closed his eyes and collapsed against the pillow, trying to ignore the pain in his head and his unsettled stomach. By Aslan, he thought, this certainly wasn't helping.

"Then stop acting like it. Honestly, after all we've been through, nearly a decade leading a kingdom, I would've thought you'd learn to act like a . . ."

But Edmund didn't find out what he hadn't learned to act like, because before Susan could finish her sentence, and before he even realized what was to happen, the spinning became unbearable and Edmund threw up onto the quilt. At first relief washed over him, as he realized his nausea and headache had mostly passed, but then a rank scent reached his sinuses; even through his congestion the smell made him gag.

"Edmund!" Susan yelled.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

"You made yourself do that, didn't you?"

"What?" Edmund, a hand clamped over his mouth and nose, looked up to see Susan glowering at him with her arms crossed and jaw set.

"The measles don't cause vomiting. You made yourself throw up so you wouldn't have to do school work."

She laughed, but Edmund guessed there wasn't any joy behind it. He looked at her, noticing for the first time that her skirt seemed longer, the heels of her shoes higher, her hair more neatly combed than a few months before. The way she shook her head while the choppy chuckles escaped made her seem like mother dealing with a naughty toddler, a teacher who had just sent an irritating student to the corner. At first he'd been embarrassed, ashamed, even, but now the emotions were boiling over, too intense to be so complicated. Now all he felt was anger.

"That's ridiculous!" he yelled. "I'm sick!"

"I know, Edmund. You've only said so a dozen times since I've come in."

"If you're so tired of it, then why don't you leave?"

"Fine, I will." Susan slid her massive stack of books off the nightstand and into her arms. She teetered to the door, muttering just loudly enough for Edmund to hear. "But when you go back to school and can't keep up, don't come to me. You'll just have to . . ."

"What, fail like you?" Even in his anger, Edmund regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but of course by then it was too late to take them back. "I-I didn't mean that," he whispered.

Susan had stopped mid-step, then turned to face Edmund. "I've never failed," she said, her voice surprisingly steady and even. "And just because you, and Lucy, and Peter . . . just because you earn top marks by sitting there and I don't doesn't mean I don't keep up. School is supposed to challenge."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry." Susan snorted. "Well, so am I. I'm sorry I wasted my time." She spun on her heel and continued out the door.

"Wait, Susan!" Edmund pushed back the soiled quilt and tried to run after her, but slipped on the wood floor before he could take a full step. He crashed to the ground, which somehow set off a coughing fit. Edmund didn't try to reign it in. He let the hacks shake his body, let himself believe that he couldn't stop it.

Maybe he could, but he was far too tired to try.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Two chapters this week - I'm actually ahead of schedule, how about that? ;) I've always had a head-cannon that Susan struggled in school more than her siblings. I don't know why, but it suited my purposes for this story, so there you have it. Many thanks to everyone who viewed/followed the first chapter, and especially big thanks to PaintingMusic14 for her sweet review!


	4. Chapter 4

The Kings and Queens of Narnia were each skilled in many noble recreational activities. High King Peter the Great was an avid swordsman, proficient with both his long battle sword and more benign foil used for fencing with his knights. Queen Susan the Gentle could shoot an arrow straight through a bull's eye at a hundred paces. Queen Lucy the Valiant had such a keen understanding of the South Seas' winds and marine life she could sail with greater speed and more precise navigation than even the most experienced captain. Even he, King Edmund the Just, enjoyed riding his loyal stallion Phillip through the woods, jumping downed logs and challenging everyone he saw to a race.

Their greatest pleasure, however, came not from their own individual interests, but from a shared activity. At every sighting of the rare white stag, all four would be out of Cair Paravel faster than a blink, on their horses, a quiver of arrows on each of their backs, a bow slung over each's shoulder. They'd give chase, for hours sometimes, into strange corner of the kingdom they'd never seen. It was great fun, of course, but invariably the stag would disappear, often as quickly as it'd come.

Sleep, it seemed to Edmund, was equally elusive. He hugged his knees tightly against his chest, shivering as the chills crept up his spine. Every part of him throbbed with pain, from the headache pounding at his crown down to the stiff joints of his toes, but by far the worst was his chest. Breathing made his lungs clench, as if they were afraid of allowing too much air inside, and each cough sent daggers deeper and deeper into his core.

The fever had made his brain foggy; he could barely form a stream of coherent thoughts, but the longer he tossed and turned, the more other voices filled in the gaps.

 _Children are spoiled rotten these days._

 _I'm sorry I wasted my time._

 _I thought we'd moved beyond all that._

 _Honestly, it's no wonder so many women are eager to saddle their spoiled, greedy little swine on the unsuspecting_

He'd messed up. He'd messed up horribly, even though he'd promised himself and everyone else he wouldn't anymore. If he had the strength, Edmund would have punched his pillow. He'd tried so hard to behave, and it seemed to come so naturally to Peter and Lucy and Susan. But then he'd come in and ruin the whole thing.

Just like that time Mum took them to the zoo, and he'd made Lucy cry by telling her the tigers would escape and eat her because they liked children with red hair best.

Just like when Dad left. While everyone else had gathered by the front door to say goodbye, Edmund had run off and hid in the linen closet because he didn't want Peter to know he'd been crying. And then when Dad found him and tried to ask what was wrong, he'd lost his temper and yelled and broken a lamp on the hall table.

Just like in London. He'd once heard Peter and Susan whispering that if he hadn't been so reckless about the bombs, Mum wouldn't have had to send them away.

Just like in Narnia, when they'd all somehow known who to trust, but he'd been tricked by the White Witch. He hadn't meant to put them in real danger, and he was still as sorry as he'd been the day after, but sorry didn't fix anything, now, did it?

Edmund rubbed his runny nose across the back of his hand, a plan slowly forming in his fevered mind. By Aslan, that was it! Narnia! When he'd been king, he'd had countless advisors and tutors and seers who always seemed to know what was right. He could go back and ask them or, heaven knows, perhaps he'd even see Aslan himself. Surely there would be someone who could tell him how to make things right.

In a flurry of excitement, Edmund threw back the covers and slid out of bed, ignoring the nausea that gripped his stomach and the light feeling in his head. This was far more important than the stupid measles. He didn't have any slippers here, but he quickly found a thick pair of wool socks, which he eased onto his feet with shaking hands. The room was cold as the inside of The Macready's new refrigerator, but to Edmund, such an observation only reinforced his plan. It had been cold when he'd first gone to Narnia. He found his bathrobe on its hook at the end of his bed, and though it did little to ease the shivers, he slowly tiptoed out the door.

Once in the hallway, Edmund found his head even foggier than before. Lucy and Susan's room was to his right, Peter was staying down two doors to the left, the Professor's study was upstairs . . . but where was the room with the great wardrobe? He took a tentative step towards the stairs leading down, but slipped and stumbled and nearly lost his balance. He flailed his arms out and grabbed the banister to steady himself, taking deep breaths to try to slow his racing heart, but succeeding only in setting off a deep, wet coughing fit.

"That's right," he muttered, once his hacks had begun to subside. He wiped his lips with the cuff of his sleeve and started to hobble towards the stairs leading up, keeping one hand on the wall just in case. "Lucy found it when we were playing hide-and-seek upstairs."

Each step seemed grueling, each motion delayed. First his confused brain had to remember that to climb stairs you had to step up, then the signal proceeded slowly, sometimes getting forced out by a cough or sneeze. If it reached his legs, then his achy knees would grind to bend, and finally – finally – he could advance forward.

Edmund's hands were trembling by the time he made it up the stairs. He'd once chased Lucy up to the room in the middle of the night, and that had hardly worked out well. The White Witch must have been hiding somewhere in the hall, for him to shiver so harshly. _But no!_ , he'd have screamed if his throat wasn't so sore. _No matter how cold it was, he couldn't take the drink!_

The room's door was ajar, and it wasn't empty.

"What are you doing up so late?" Professor Kirke asked. "And, goodness, aren't you ill?"

Edmund couldn't tell if Professor's Kirke's questions were rhetorical, so he assumed they were. The wardrobe was so close, now. He could see it, could smell the pine branches hidden behind the coats.

"Listen to me, son." Professor Kirke took his arm, not tightly. "It won't be there. Not if you want it to be."

Edmund tried to twist away, but couldn't. "I don't . . ." The list of 'couldn't's grew as he began to cough again. He couldn't lift his free arm to cover his mouth, his legs couldn't hold him anymore. His eyes closed and he couldn't see the wardrobe, he couldn't smell the pine, he was too congested.

"Not even if you need it to be."

The Professor picked him up, like you would a baby, but Edmund didn't care. There was no use fighting it now.

* * *

The Macready said his rash had spread to his arms and chest. The Macready said his fever had spiked to over 40° (104°F). His cough had gotten worse, much worse, bringing up globs of mucus with each hack. Edmund's frame shook violently with chills, and both his pyjamas and bedsheets were soaked through with sweat. His hair was stringy and wet, sticking to his neck and face and irritating the measles rash. His skull pounded with an excruciating headache that made him cry out in pain more than once, and moving more than a few inches sent him into a nauseatingly dizzy state.

He tried to get comfortable in bed, but no position stayed tolerable for long. He tried pulling the quilt tight around him, but a second later his whole body would burn with heat as if someone were trying to torture him with a sauna. He tossed his head and shoulders until the covers fell away, but quickly the White Witch invaded, wrapping Edmund's rash-covered skin with goose flesh and setting his teeth to chatter. Sometimes the chill would linger even after he was back beneath the covers, seeping into his bones and freezing him solid from the inside out.

A coldness washed over his face and came to rest on his brow, feeling simultaneously as refreshing as a cool spring breeze through Cair Paravel's stuffy main hall, and as tortuous as a single limb plunged into ice water. Murmured words, frantic whispers. Familiar voices, but Edmund couldn't place them. He cracked open his eyelids to glance at the two people standing over him. Neither was looking straight down, but he recognized them anyway. What they were doing there he couldn't say, but in his excitement didn't stop to think.

"Mum? D-Dad?" Edmund's voice was barely a whisper, but they heard. She looked down at him, her kind eyes shining. She said something but Edmund didn't hear. He didn't care; she was here. That was all that mattered. He looked down too, smiling the big, goofy grin he always had after a long day. His pipe was stuck in the gap between his front teeth and Edmund could smell the vanilla tobacco he was smoking; even with his sinuses congested like they were he could smell it like the pipe was in inch from his face.

She reached out to brush the damp fringe from his brow, but something wasn't right. Her hands were far too slender, too boney for someone who worked the assembly line at an airplane factory. He flinched away from her touch. Her hair was too light, too unlike his, and her nose was too short. The scent of vanilla tobacco faded away along with the pipe in his teeth and the gap that held it. The mirage disappeared piece by piece, his mum and dad replaced with Susan and Peter.

Edmund tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. There were hot drops of water on his boiling face, sizzling in the heat. Were they tears? He supposed they must have been. Kings don't cry, they shouldn't cry, and certainly not King Edmund the Just. But somehow he felt, just this once, everyone might understand.

* * *

"Mum? D-Dad?"

Susan and Peter glanced at each other, their eyes wide.

"Mrs. Macready!" Susan yelled, then reached down to brush Edmund's fringe out of his eyes. She tried to feel his forehead, but he flinched away when her fingertips only grazed his brow. Even so, she felt the sickly heat radiating off him. "He's boiling," Susan whispered.

Peter picked up a damp cloth from a basin of tepid water on the night stand and wiped Edmund's face and neck. The younger boy shivered violently and broke into another coughing fit. Peter slid his arm behind Edmund's back and pulled him up so he was sitting. Susan came over with an empty basin and slid it into Edmund's lap. Each hacking, gagging cough pitched the young boy forward, quickly filling the basin with sticky, viscous mucus. At first it was clear, with perhaps a light yellow tinge, but after the first few heaves each deposit in the basin grew more and more pink-streaked.

"Is – is that blood?" Peter asked. His heart was pounding as panic rose up in him, making his stomach drop and chest clench. None of his siblings had ever been this sick; not in Narnia, not before the war, not ever.

"Mrs. Macready!" Susan screamed again, wiping at Edmund's mouth with a handkerchief. When she pulled it away it was stained bright red.

"Dear Aslan," Peter whispered, strengthening his hold on his brother. "Please let him be okay."

Edmund was still struggling to catch his breath, and every time he managed to draw in a bit of air, Peter heard it rattle around in his lungs.

"Peter, he's turning blue!" And so he was; just his lips and fingertips now, but Peter could see it slowly spreading across his face and up his hands.

"Mrs. Macready!" the two well siblings yelled, just as the woman hurried through the door, Dr. Gordon not a half-step behind.

"He can't breathe," Peter said. "Hardly at all."

"And his fever's spiked again," Susan said, patting Edmund's back as he coughed up another glob of pink mucus.

"What's the matter with him?" Peter asked, his voice squeaking in his panic. "Susan and I were pretty sick when we had the measles, but nothing like this."

"I'm not sure." Dr. Gordon sat at the edge of Edmund's bed, forcing Peter to step back. He tried to look down Edmund's throat, but Edmund couldn't hear his requests to say "ah," or else ignored them. "What did you say his temperature was?"

"40.5° (104.9°F)," Susan said.

Dr. Gordon let out a low whistle. "No wonder he's in his own world at the moment. Breathing a bit better, though." The blue tinge was receding, but lingered at Edmund's fingertips. Dr. Gordon took out a stethoscope. "Mrs. Macready mentioned a change in his coughing?" he asked, slipping the metal bell beneath Edmund's pyjama shirt.

"Yes," Susan said, "it was dry before but turned wet this morning."

Dr. Gordon nodded thoughtfully as he listened to Edmund's unsteady breathing. After a tense minute, he pulled out the bell and faced Susan and Peter. "I can't be sure just listening with a stethoscope, but I think your brother has pneumonia."

"What?" Peter asked in a low voice, though he felt like screaming. "I thought he just had the measles."

"He does have the measles, with secondary pneumonia, I believe. It's a complication far more common than I like to admit." Dr. Gordon straightened his glasses. "I think it's best that we take him to hospital. We'll need to confirm the pneumonia with an x-ray, and in any case he needs more constant attention than I can give him here."

Peter and Susan were silent, apparently too stunned to speak, but The Macready cleared her throat.

"Well," she said, "we'd best get a move on."

* * *

 **Author's** **Note:** This was a challenging chapter to write, I hope it turned out alright! Many thanks to PaintingMusic14, varsitybanks99, and NarniaGuest for the reviews, you guys made my week :) And, as always, thanks to everyone who's read/followed/favorited. My university's Study Period/Exams are about to start, so depending on how strong the pull of procrastination turns out to be, I may be updating less or more often the next few weeks. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ My goal is to have the whole story finished and posted by Christmas, or New Years at the latest, so stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 5

In hospital they rushed Edmund from here to there and back again about a million times, but as far as Peter could tell, it didn't seem to be making much of a difference. After three days, the nurse said his fever was down a bit, but he was still trapped in the oxygen tent, still too delirious to talk or even notice Peter was there, still far too sick for just the measles.

"Children's immune systems aren't as strong as adults'," the ward nurse explained in a very condescending tone; that was why Susan and Lucy weren't allowed to visit. Peter wouldn't have been allowed, either, if he hadn't told the nurse he was fifteen, instead of the true thirteen. Although, as Peter rationalized, his true-true age was thirty-eight, even if his body wasn't smart enough to know it.

The most infuriating part, though, was that whoever was in charge of such things hadn't even put Edmund in the children's ward. Peter could see the sense in it – no use giving pneumonia to a bunch of four-year-olds with tonsillitis – but the thought still made him seethe. The world seemed content to treat them all like adults when it was convenient, and like children when it wasn't.

For instance, The Macready was recorded as Edmund's primary caregiver (that one made Peter laugh), but she only came to hospital once a day for fifteen minutes. Peter was there almost constantly, so the nurse gave updates to him, instead.

On the first day: "His lung collapsed." A frown, that was bad. Peter tried to think if he'd ever learned what that was. He didn't think so. "But he should be alright. He's certainly fighting."

A few hours later: "The pneumothorax has been relieved." The what? "His lung isn't collapsed anymore." A small smile, that was good.

On the second day: "His fever's come down."

A few hours later: "His fever's spiked again."

On the third day: "You shouldn't be here, young man." That voice was too deep to be the ward nurse.

Peter, who'd been dozing in his chair next to Edmund's bed, looked up to see Dr. Gordon. "Someone needs to be, sir."

"Yes, I know. That's why hospitals have nurses."

"That's not the same."

"I know." Dr. Gordon picked up a clipboard from the end of the bed and flipped through the pages. "Well, your brother's not quite out of the woods yet, but he's certainly at the edge."

"He doesn't look any different to me." Peter took off his glasses to rub his eyes. "And he still has a fever, and he's still coughing all the time—"

"Oh, that's not being fair. He's still in his own world, yes, but he looks much calmer. More tired than delirious, I'd say." Dr. Gordon returned the clipboard and put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "You look pretty tired yourself. Have you been here since just after school?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's that, three hours? And I suppose you were here all weekend, as well."

Peter nodded, letting himself feel, for a moment, the mountain of bricks piled on his shoulders. Even as High King he'd never felt so burdened, not even when he had to make decisions of war, of battle . . . the kinds of decisions that would affect so many of his subjects for decades to come. At least then his siblings were always by his side, his many courtiers and seers and advisors. But now one of those siblings was what needed his attention, the others weren't permitted to help, and there were hardly any seers to be found.

"You'll only make yourself sick, wearing yourself out like this," Dr. Gordon said, "and you're not supposed to be in the ward to begin with."

"I'm fine." Blast! He'd thought Dr. Gordon didn't know his age; now Peter was one conversation with the ward nurse away from being kicked out.

Dr. Gordon didn't seem immediately concerned about that, however. "How long has your face been flushed, son?"

"My face isn't flushed."

Dr. Gordon ignored that and pressed a hand against Peter's forehead. "You don't feel warm. You wouldn't happen to have a headache?"

"Why, did you forget yours?" Peter gave a nervous smile. He did have a headache, had had a headache practically since he got up that morning. It was the kind that pulsed with his heartbeat, which had been very disconcerting when he'd run to the hospital from school. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. He hadn't known his pulse could race so fast, although under Dr. Gordon's stern gaze, his heart threatened to break its own record. All day he'd not told anyone, not rubbed his head for more than a moment . . . no one else had noticed. Perhaps the seers were closer than he thought.

"Go home and get some rest. I'm wasn't joking when I said you'd make yourself ill, and I'm sure the last thing your mum and dad want is two children in hospital."

Lucy used to do that sort of thing, telling them all to go to sleep earlier, eat more fruit and veg, nag if they let slip the tiniest of ailments. Once, at a picnic, Edmund complained that his clicking jaw (a remnant of an old battle injury) was always sore after eating anything that forced him to open his mouth very wide, such as the delicious sandwiches the cooks had prepared. It wasn't enough to stop him from inhaling three of them, but Lucy nagged him to see a tooth healer about it for months before finally giving up. In the meantime, Susan and Peter had known enough to hurry away whenever they heard cries of "Just get it _over_ already!," or, "It's not even a tooth!"

Peter glanced down at Edmund in his hospital bed. He probably should go to the dentist if his jaw was still bothering him, but Peter had never thought to ask. And if it was bothering him, and he didn't go of his own accord (and really, what ten-year-old did that?), who would nag him? Mum and Dad weren't there. The Macready was an unlikely candidate, unless a clicking jaw somehow led to a mess in her kitchen. Lucy was too young to be thinking of such things anymore, and Susan was busy nagging about school.

"Go home," Dr. Gordon said again. "Get some sleep. Edmund will still be here tomorrow."

Peter lingered, hoping Edmund would choose that moment to suddenly awaken, without the slightest hint of a cough or fever. Or, better yet, that Lucy would appear in all her royal glory and offer up a drop from her cordial.

Dr. Gordon cleared his throat. "Now, son."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

In his life, Edmund had never felt so small. He was surrounded by giants, and though their usual laziness prevented them from doing much but lounge around, Edmund knew they could decide to attack at any moment. When they did – and they would – they'd have the power of the White Witch behind them. Edmund felt her presence, the cold air she blew into his little cave. A small part of his mind said she was gone, but do aches and pains ever really leave? Or do they only hibernate, to reawaken when another attack has left you weak?

The door to his cave flung open, letting in a frigid gust. His teeth began to chatter while the White Witch reached inside, no warm drink to offer (but if she had, he mustn't take it!), just an icy touch: first on his face, then wrist, then chest. An icicle she forced into his mouth (the warm drink frozen? he mustn't swallow!). There was muttering just outside the cave's door, it must have been a giant. The White Witch snatched back the icicle. "No change," she said. She closed the cave again, but the frigid gust lingered. It had seeped too deep into his bones to leave so quickly; it could leech out one shiver at a time, though that would take millennia.

The giant muttered again, Edmund's cave collapsed down around his arm. He flinched away, to the other corner, tried to squint his eyes open enough to see his attacker. Through the cave's clear walls he saw Peter's tired face. _RUN! LEAVE! THE WHITE WITCH IS COMING!_ Edmund's mind screamed, but all that reached his lips was a heavy breath, a cough, a wheeze. Peter smiled. He mustn't have heard.

Opening his eyes had taken too much effort; Edmund was on the brink of sleep again. He tried once more to warn Peter, but there was no use. His vocal chords were frozen.

When he woke again the world outside his cave was darker, with only giants in view. Good, he thought. Somehow Peter understood.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** A slightly shorter chapter this time. Edmund is far and away my favorite character, but it was an interesting change of pace to write from Peter's perspective for a bit. The next few scenes will also be from his POV. As always, thanks for reading and reviews/favorites/follows!


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, for heaven's sake, another one!"

Peter moved the arm that had been covering his eyes and groaned. If he could have kept just one of the servants from Cair Paravel, it'd have been Gorn, the grumpy old beaver who guarded his chambers. Gorn's greatest love in life was telling people to go away – and, speaking on behalf of the High King, everybody had to listen. With all her self-assumed importance, The Macready might as well have been the High King of England.

"What's that, Mrs. Macready?"

The Macready walked through Peter's open bedroom door, wiping her hands on her apron. "First Edmund, then Lucy, now you . . . a houseful of sick children, I knew it would happen."

"I'm not sick," Peter said, sitting up quickly and attempting to straighten his school uniform. He'd taken a nap as soon as he got back from the hospital, like Dr. Gordon had said, but once his bed was in sight, its pull had been too strong to allow for any delays, like undressing.

"Did you say Lucy is sick?" Peter put on his glasses and started to stand, but Mrs. Macready put a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"Yes, Lucy has the measles. I was called down to pick her up at school earlier today."

Peter tried to remember if anyone had told him that. He didn't think so, but – by Aslan! He could hardly keep anything straight anymore. "I'm not sick, Mrs. Macready. I was only sleeping."

The Macready narrowed her eyes at Peter, scanning him head to toe. She reached out to feel his forehead.

"I ran into Dr. Gordon at the hospital, and even he said I wasn't sick."

"Then why was he looking at you?"

That was suspicious, wasn't it? Peter hadn't considered it himself; he must've looked ill, for Dr. Gordon to take the time . . . but people look ill, sometimes, when they're very tired. That wasn't news. Lucy used to say that was because sick and tired have the same best remedy – a decent meal and a good night's sleep.

"I had a headache," Peter finally said, "but I feel fine now."

The Macready gave a disbelieving huff, but let her arm drop from Peter's forehead. "You're not feverish, at any rate."

"I feel fine. You said Lucy has the measles?"

"Yes, and she's very upset about it. Which is understandable given the . . ." The Macready had the decency change her expression from sullen to sympathetic. "Given the circumstances. But if you'd like to cheer her up, be my guest. I'm sure she'd enjoy the company."

"Yes, ma'am."

Once The Macready retreated back to her kitchen, Peter hurried across the hall to Lucy's room and knocked.

"Come in," a hoarse voice said.

Lucy was snuggled beneath a quilt with her stuffed dog, a book open on her lap. Peter let out a relieved sigh. He'd dreaded seeing her covered in an angry rash, pale as a sheet around it, but she was only slightly flushed. Probably not much more than he'd been earlier, although her nose was bright red to match and runny.

"Hey, Lu. How're you feeling?"

"Crummy," she said. "Susan said it would be like chickenpox, but it isn't. It' a million times worse."

Peter gave a crooked smile. Lucy didn't even have the rash yet; she was probably going to feel much worse before she felt any better, but Peter didn't have the heart to tell her. "Yeah, the measles are pretty crummy." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over. "Blow your nose, love. You don't want to get an ear infection on top of it."

Lucy honked into the handkerchief, then looked back and forth between it and Peter. "Do you want it back?"

"Consider it a gift, milady. A plea for your favor."

"And you shall have it, milord." Lucy giggled. "But I hope you're not planning to give Ed the same thing for his birthday."

"That's right," Peter said, almost to himself. He'd nearly forgotten about that; birthdays had mattered less in Narnia (what was the difference, really, between thirty-two and thirty-three?), but turning eleven was quite the occasion.

"That's right? You're going to give him a snotty handkerchief for his birthday?"

"No, silly!" Peter nudged her shoulder. "I don't know what I'm going to give him. I'll have to think about it."

"He'll be home from hospital by then, won't he?"

Peter bit his lip and looked down at the floor. Why was she asking him? What did he know? Edmund's birthday wasn't for another two weeks, but he had no idea how long someone had to be in hospital for pneumonia. He drummed his fingers on the nightstand before looking back at Lucy.

"What're you reading, there? The Secret Garden?"

"Don't change the subject, Peter!"

"Do you want me to read to you for a bit?" Peter reached for the book, and smiled at Lucy's small nod. He climbed next to her on the bed, slid one arm around her shoulders, and let her lean her warm face against his chest.

"Chapter Nine: The Strangest House Any One Ever Lived In," Peter said in his best wireless-broadcaster voice. Lucy giggled, pausing to cough twice. Peter waited for her to finish before he continued. "It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any-one could ever imagine . . ."

He read for a long time, about the garden, and Mary, and Dickon, and Colin, and poor old Mr. Craven. And he enjoyed it, even if it was a silly children's book. It had been one of Peter's favorites, when he was Lucy's age. He read until his own voice was dry and hoarse, and Lucy was half-asleep against him.

"I think that's all I can do for now," Peter said.

Lucy nodded. "Peter?"

"Yes?" He closed the book and set it on the nightstand.

"Did Mrs. Halverson have pneumonia?"

Peter was quiet for a long time. Mrs. Halverson and her daughter and son-in-law lived next door to them in London, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She was a silver-haired old woman who rarely left her house, but every once in a while she'd bake a tray of biscuits and call the Pevensie children over to "help" her eat them. "No need to tell your mum," she'd say with a wink. She died about a year before the war started.

"Yes, she did," Peter finally said. "But she was very old and sickly to start."

"Why didn't you say if Ed would be back in time for his birthday?"

"He's not going to die, Lu." Peter swallowed hard. He shouldn't've said it like that. He'd have never said that to the family of a knight about to leave on campaign. Even if it wasn't likely to be a difficult battle, you could never be sure. He should've said, "He's getting better," or, "He'll be back before you know it." False assurances only made it harder if . . . no, Peter refused to think about that.

Lucy was coughing again, but only light, dry coughs into her hand.

"You should get some sleep," Peter said, climbing out of the bed. "You'll feel a little better in the morning." He pulled the covers up over Lucy's shoulders while she snuggled against her pillow.

"That's what Ed said, and he didn't."

"What's that?"

"The first night he was sick, I went to check on him, and . . ."

"Lucy!" Peter sighed. Of course she had. Lucy had been the most reluctant of any of them to give up her Narnian ways, and she had been the finest healer in the kingdom. "No wonder you're sick, then. Mrs. Macready told you not to go into his room."

"Well, you and Susan weren't checking on him."

"We didn't know he had the measles at first, remember? If he'd had flu or something like that, Susan and I could've gotten sick, too."

"It didn't change after you knew. Not until he needed to go in hospital."

"Ed doesn't like people checking up on him."

"Did you ask him?"

Peter busied himself with straightening the things on Lucy's nightstand: her book, glass of water, a thermometer. "He's never liked that sort of thing."

"Mum or Dad always checked on us, all of us, even Ed, when we were poorly. All the time."

"Susan and I aren't Mum and Dad!" Peter yelled. "If I was ill, I'd wish Mum and Dad were here, too. I wish they were, anyway. It's not as if Susan and I magically stopped needing them when we started secondary school. I bet the Professor wishes his mum and dad were around when he's ill, too. And it isn't fair to . . . to . . ." Peter trailed off. He didn't really know what he was saying, he was too tired to think. He hadn't even begun his homework, yet, and it was nearly time for bed.

"I'm not Mum, either," Lucy said, "but that doesn't mean I couldn't check on him. You're not Dad, but you're checking on me now."

"What would you like me to do, Lucy? Visit him in hospital every day? I already am. I-I'll bring a book tomorrow, and if he wakes up I'll ask if he wants me to read to him. Would that make you happy?"

"Yes. And it'll make him happy, too," Lucy said with a stiff nod. "It really isn't fair, you know."

"What isn't fair?" Peter noticed Lucy shivering and wrapped the blankets more tightly around her shoulders.

"You and Susan keep saying you want him to act different than he did before, but you treat him like he won't. It must be hard to act cheerful if everyone assumes you'll be surly."

Peter leaned against Lucy's dresser, slack-jawed, unsure what to say. He wondered, sometimes, if Lucy had secretly stayed thirty-three while the rest of them returned to their prior ages. He wondered if he'd settled back in too thoroughly.

"It must be," he finally said.

Lucy yawned and snuggled against her pillow. "He said he wanted to read Treasure Island. You should bring that."

"I will, if you promise to get some rest," Peter said, leaning over to kiss Lucy's forehead. "Goodnight, sleep tight."

"Don't let the harpies bite."

Peter made a face. "Guess I'd better sleep with a cricket bat under my pillow, then."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks for reading, and for all the favorites/follows/reviews this past week! My finals will be done soon, so updates will start to come much faster (theoretically). Stay tuned!


	7. Chapter 7

Peter re-read the same paragraph in his writing textbook for the fifth time. Supposedly it explained to compose a persuasive essay, but it only convinced him it was time to take a break.

He sighed and looked at the alarm clock: 12:14 am. If his teacher had asked him to write an essay on why he should be at the hospital with his brother, or why the individual instruction given by the tutors at Cair Pavarel was infinitely superior to the classroom model, he'd have finished an hour ago. But no, he had to write an essay on whether Beowulf should be taught for its literary or historical significance. "Neither," was the extent of Peter's true opinion on the matter, but there was a 500-word minimum.

So far he'd written his name (spelled incorrectly, he now realized), and "Beowulf is an epic poem written in the year 1075" _(crossed out)_ "1025" _(crossed out)_ "975" _(crossed out)_ "The date of the composition of Beowulf, an epic poem, is debated amongst scholars."

He needed something to wake him up a bit. A few years ago he'd have snuck a biscuit or three from the jar his mum kept full in the kitchen, but The Macready didn't seem like the type to bake biscuits, even if sugar hadn't been rationed. A cup of tea might do nicely, though.

In socked feet he slipped out his door and down the stairs, past the library and . . . he paused. That was strange; the library door was closed, but the lights were on. Peter pressed his ear against the door, straining to listen.

"There, I've added the numbers in the parentheses. What's next?" That was Susan's voice. Stranger; why was she up, too?

"You tell me." Professor Kirke.

"Then I . . . please . . . excuse – there aren't any exponents . . . my – no multiplication . . . dear . . . oh! I divide the sixty-four by eight. And that gives me eight."

"Yes, that's right."

"And then I just add the seven, and the answer is fifteen."

"Indeed! Well done you."

Peter raised his hand to knock, but before he'd made a sound Professor Kirke opened the door and said, "Yes, Peter, you may come in."

Susan was sitting at a large table in the middle of the room, notebooks, flashcards, a cuppa and a slide ruler in neat piles around her.

"Maths homework?" Peter asked.

Susan nodded. "I can't seem to keep this order of operations straight."

"Be fair to yourself," Professor Kirke said. "You've got the hang of it, now."

"Oh yes," Susan said, rolling her eyes, "and it only took two hours."

Professor Kirke chuckled. "Kindling catches fire fast, but burns away in just a few minutes. I'd much rather be a log, take my time to light, and glow for days."

"I'd much rather finish this worksheet before it's time to go to school again."

"Keep going. You'll get there." Professor Kirke turned to Peter. "What's got you up so late, then? I'd ask if you couldn't sleep, but it seems you haven't made it to bed at all just yet."

Susan and Professor Kirke were both in pyjamas and dressing robes, but Peter still had on his school uniform. He felt oddly ashamed, as if it was proof he wasn't even pretending to try and get to sleep at a reasonable hour. "I still have to finish an essay, sir."

"What on?"

"Whether Beowulf should be taught for its literary or historical significance."

"Ah." Professor Kirke looked far too interested for Peter's liking. Getting adults – real adults – involved with school work was never good. The next thing you knew, your essay wasn't good enough until it was as eloquent as Shakespeare and as long as War and Peace. "And?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"Should it be taught for its literary or historical significance? I'm interested to know your opinion."

Peter shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Oh, I haven't gotten that far yet."

"It seems that should be the first step, no?"

Susan giggled, earning her a glare from Peter. She shrugged and went back to her maths.

"I still have to write the introduction, sir."

"Ah. In that case I'd say you have to _start_ your essay before you can _finish_ it."

"Historical," Peter said.

"And why historical?"

"Um . . ." Peter thought for a moment. "Because there's the potential for a lot to be lost or altered in translation, if you're trying to look at word choice or literary devices." Professor Kirke raised his eyebrows; he wasn't convinced.

"And what makes you say that? Do you have any specific examples?"

Oh, right, Peter thought. Essays needed that sort of thing. "Um, well, Beowulf's supposed to be alliterative, right? But if you look at the modern English translation, it isn't at all. And some Old English words don't have a good modern translation. Like, um, like feoh." Peter didn't really know if 'feoh' had an exact translation, but it was the only Old English word he could call to mind.

Professor Kirke stroked his beard. "I suppose you could argue 'wealth' doesn't really capture the full meaning of 'feoh.' But these are all criticisms of a specific translation, rather than against literary study in general, are they not?"

"Yes, but, um . . . but no translation can be perfect. And Beowulf is usually taught at the beginning of secondary school, so the people studying it are just learning how to analyze literature. So adding all that to deal with will make it too difficult. But looking at the story in general, which is much easier to understand, can say a lot about what the people valued at the time it was written."

"Ah, so you aren't disputing the literary value of Beowulf at all, simply that the complexity of its analysis makes it an inefficient use of classroom time?"

Peter hesitated. That wasn't really what he meant, but it sounded a lot better than what he meant. And Professor Kirke had to have been a professor – a teacher – somewhere at some point, right?

"Yes, sir," he finally said.

"Well, then it sounds like you have the makings of an excellent essay." Professor Kirke produced a stack of loose leaf paper and a ballpoint pen, seemingly from the air. "I take it you have nothing usable written elsewhere?"

"No, sir."

"Then off you go!"

Peter took the paper and pen and sat next to Susan at the table. She was nearly done with her worksheet . . . or so he thought until she flipped it over to reveal another page. They worked quietly, while Professor Kirke poured Peter a cup of tea, refilled Susan's, and settled down in an armchair with another cup for himself. He told them to speak up if they had any questions or needed any help, but within a few minutes he was snoring.

"He really is a sweet man," Susan whispered. "He's been helping me with my maths almost every night, even though I think he hates it nearly as much as I do."

"Well, with a library like this he must prefer literature and things like that," Peter said, frowning at a word he'd misspelled.

"You have to learn everything, though, to go to University like he did."

"It's impossible to learn everything."

"A bit of everything, then."

"I suppose."

They worked quietly for a half hour or so, but Peter still struggled to stay awake enough to concentrate. The tea did almost nothing (Probably decaffeinated, he thought), and his eyelids felt so blasted heavy, as if their lashes had turned from hair to granite. He managed to fight through the essay, fueled solely by the thought that he'd get to go to bed when he was finished, but not without a yawn after every sentence.

"You're always so tired," Susan muttered, after this pattern had persisted for two paragraphs straight.

"It's nearly half-one, of course I'm tired," Peter snapped.

"I didn't just mean now. You've been perpetually exhausted since we came back from Narnia."

Peter shifted in his seat. "I'm worried about Ed, that's all."

"No, it isn't. That's making it worse, but it isn't all."

"I had no idea you were such an expert on my health." Peter rolled his eyes, then tried to take a sip of tea before realizing his cup was empty. The pot still felt slightly warm, so he poured himself some more. "Want any?" he asked.

"Please," Susan said, but didn't wait for him to finish before going on. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Peter shrugged. "I guess I've been tired. But so what?"

"It isn't normal to be exhausted all the time," Susan insisted, then went on to pester him with a million questions about whether he was sleeping enough ("Yes"), if he was having a lot of bad dreams ("No"), whether he felt well-rested in the mornings, at least.

Peter hesitated. Truth be told, he could hardly remember the last time he felt truly rested. And even then, it seemed like the kind of memory he'd told himself so often he wondered whether he remembered the actual event or just the telling. "You're worse than Lucy ever was," he finally said.

"Well, Ed got so sick so fast . . . I don't want anything like that to happen again."

"I'm not sick," Peter said, for what felt like the millionth time. Why was everyone so paranoid all of a sudden? "And I can't get sick like Ed. I've already had the measles, remember?"

"There are lots of other things that can make you sick besides measles. And I can't imagine how you're so sure when you've just admitted to feeling poorly."

"I did no such thing!" Peter put down his pen and waved the two sheets of loose leaf containing his essay, trying to get the ink to dry more quickly. "I only said I've been tired lately."

"Is there really that much of a difference?"

"Yes! When you're poorly, you know you're going to be tired no matter what. I've only felt normal, I'll-be-fine-once-I-get-some-sleep tired."

"But you haven't felt any better after sleeping."

"I've felt _more_ rested, just not _fully_ rested," Peter argued. "And I haven't had a cough, or fever, or so much as a runny nose. I'm fine, Susan. Really. I'd say so if I weren't."

"You didn't in Narnia," Susan said, giving a gentle smirk as she counted off the many times Peter had diminished an injury or illness in order to lead an offensive, attend an important feast, or accomplish any number of his other duties as High King.

"That was different," Peter interrupted, long before Susan had finished.

"And why's that?"

Peter nearly said, 'Because here nobody's life or livelihood depends on me getting myself out of bed,' but deep down he knew that wasn't true. As much as he cared for and about each citizen of Narnia, his siblings had always come first. That hadn't changed, nor would it ever.

"I'm going to bed," Peter said, instead of answering. He picked up his completed essay and retreated before Susan could pester him more, though he tried to be quiet as he slipped past Professor Kirke, still asleep in his chair.

Or so Peter thought, until he was closing the library door behind him, and saw the professor raise his eyebrows silently.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Having had finals for the past couple weeks, I decided Susan and Peter should deal with some schoolwork of their own :-) Like them, however, I am now done, so more time for writing, yay! Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, they are always much appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

Edmund had decided he didn't much like the ward sister.

He'd only bee truly awake for about an hour, but in that time she'd made him take about a dozen disgusting medicines (including a tablespoon of cod-liver oil that smelled like rotten cabbage), sponged him like a circus animal instead of letting him take a proper bath, and said he had to stay in the "igloo" (her childish name for the oxygen tent) until his lungs were less congested.

"Just another day or two," she assured him, then wiped his sweaty face with a damp washcloth before sitting it on his brow. That did feel lovely, Edmund had to admit. The ward seemed far too warm for the time of year, though the ward sister said that was because his fever had only just broken. She fussed over him for a few minutes, then told him to go to sleep and left.

Sleep was still a ways off, though, because once she was gone, everyone in the beds around Edmund felt the need to introduce themselves. There was Mr. Terrance on the right, with a broken leg, and Kipper on the left, who'd had an operation on his eye. There was Mr. White three beds down, who claimed to have hurt his throat, even though his voice sounded fine (and plenty loud) to Edmund. There were others, too, who tried to get a word in, but by the time Mr. White had finished bellowing, Edmund wasn't paying attention anymore. He was distracted by blond-haired, glasses-wearing boy coming through the door, the one the ward sister gave a skeptical look.

"Peter?"

"Ed?" His face glowed like Edmund hadn't seen in a long time; since their dad had left for the war, at least. Peter rushed over, ignoring a "tsk" from the ward sister, then pulled Ed into tight hug.

"Peter!" Edmund squirmed and tried to push his brother's arms away, but Peter held tight for longer than he'd have liked. Mr. Terrance was watching them from behind the book he was pretending to read, and Edmund was sure he saw a smirk.

"By Aslan," Peter said, finally releasing his brother, "you're awake."

"Last time I checked," Ed said. He took advantage of his new freedom to wipe his sweaty face with his pajama sleeve while Peter sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Feeling better, then?"

Ed nodded. "Yeah."

Peter waited for elaboration, but there was none forthcoming, so he cleared his throat and reached into his school knapsack. "I brought you a book. I thought you might like to read it. While you're still stuck in bed, I mean." He thrust a copy of _Treasure Island_ into Edmund's lap.

"Thanks."

"I borrowed it from Miss Yallow, so, um, let me know when you've finished it."

"Okay." Edmund glanced at the book with raised eyebrows. He was feeling much better, but he still had a headache and didn't think staring at a page would help. "You didn't have to come."

Peter shrugged. "Well, here I am."

"But why?" Ed felt suddenly hotter, which he was sure had nothing to do with the breaking fever. "I'm sure you were all relieved to be rid of me, so go on. Enjoy it while you can."

"I came because I was worried, we were all worried. You really gave us a scare, Ed."

"None of you seemed to care much when I told Mrs. Macready I felt so terrible," Ed snapped. He put the book on his nightstand and sunk down beneath the scratchy hospital covers. "I'm tired, I'm going to sleep."

"Ed, listen . . ."

He rolled over so he was facing away from Peter. "Goodnight."

"Listen, you're right. I assumed you were making a mountain out of a molehill and that wasn't fair. Not at all. But I'm sorry, Ed, I really am. And everyone else is, too."

"It's fine."

"No it isn't. But give me the chance to make it up to you. How about I read you a couple chapters of Treasure Island? I know you can read it yourself, but Lucy said the measles is giving her such a headache she didn't want to think about reading."

"Lucy's sick, too?" Edmund turned so quickly he almost rolled right out of bed, but Peter caught his arm.

"Yes, but just regular measles, like Susan and I had. Just a bit under the weather, you'd hardly know she was poorly at all without the rash." That last bit wasn't quite true, but Peter had a hard time feeling badly over a little white lie. There was no reason to get Ed so worked up when he was still sick himself.

Mr. White cleared his supposedly-injured-throat quite loudly. "Well," he said, "are you going to read Treasure Island or not?"

Edmund snorted, and suddenly Peter knew that everything would be okay. "It's up to you, Ed."

"Only if you do voices," Edmund said with a smirk. "It isn't worth listening to someone else unless they do voices. The weirdest ones you can."

Peter grinned. "Of course." He flipped open to the first page and began reading with an overly-exaggerated Scottish highlander accent, which made Ed howl with laughter. After a few sentences the ward nurse made him stop, because Ed's laughing had prompted a coughing fit, but Peter convinced her to let him continue in his normal tone of voice (although he slipped in a bit of lilt wherever he could). And he read and read and read until Ed had fallen fast asleep, and then he read a little longer, past when his voice turned hoarse and scratchy, until the ward nurse told him visiting hours were over.

* * *

Peter Pevensie sat slumped in his chair, his pencil paused over a blank notebook while his teacher rattled on about Napoleon's invasion of Russia. History was usually Peter's favorite class, but that day's lecture must have gotten jumbled somewhere between the blackboard and the fourth row. He eventually deciphered "The Calormen army was prepared to rush in, bold!" to truly be, "Napoleon's army wasn't prepared for Russian cold," but by then Miss Yalow was three ideas and a tangent on, and Peter's headache was only getting worse.

Although, he thought, it was no wonder he couldn't pay attention to the details. Clothe the Narnian army during winter campaigns, predict what provisions could be found and what must be brought . . . Susan usually took care of those sorts of things. Without her Peter would have surely lead his people into a battle just as doomed as Moscow, unless Edmund stopped it all with a peace agreement. And with Lucy's cordial, of course, there'd be no worry of disease among the ranks; Peter heard Miss Yalow say "You know the men tied up were more deadly than guns and swords," which his mind slowly rearranged to begin, "Pneumonia and Typhus."

Myrtle Allen, in the front row, asked what Typhus was, and another tangent ensued.

In a way, Peter wished he was away on campaign. Chain mail might not have been the most comfortable of fashion choices, but anything was better than his stupid uniform tie and collar. They always tried to choke him, but that day they seemed particularly successful. Peter swallowed hard before remembering that that made his throat burn. Breakfast had been torture – dry toast (the grocer didn't have any jam or butter), a mealy apple, a cup of tea that might as well been acid, the cod liver oil The Macready had decreed he and Susan must take . . . dear Aslan, don't think about the cod liver oil! Mum used to make him take it, too, when one of his siblings was sick, but The Macready must have chosen the foulest formula at the chemist's.

"Peter?"

His head was buried in his arms, resting on his desk. He didn't remember assuming such a position, but forcing himself out of it was no mean feat. The classroom was empty, the board erased; it must have been the break Miss Yalow always gave them between history and English lessons. Before the war they'd have had a different teacher for each subject, but the straps had been tightened even there.

"Peter, are you feeling alright?"

His head shook before he could stop it. Miss Yalow pressed the back of her fingers against his brow, so Peter felt her engagement ring dig into his skin.

"You seem feverish," she said. "Would you like to go home?"

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, choking back the tears that had appeared in his eyes without warning. He knew he was ill. He felt like he'd been trampled by a heard of centaurs; it wasn't possible he was just tired, just worried, just homesick. Not anymore. But that didn't mean he wasn't all those things, too.

Miss Yalow didn't wait for an answer. She put one hand on Peter's shoulder and led him down to the office, depositing him into a chair in the corner, the same chair where Edmund had sat a week before. Miss Yalow whispered with the secretary for a few moments, then hurried out, back to the classroom.

"Feeling poorly, dear?" the secretary asked, safe at her post behind her desk.

Peter muttered in the affirmative and fought to keep his eyes open. By Aslan, he'd never felt so exhausted. And his throat was on fire, worse than the time he had scarlet fever when he was seven, and his head could've been knocked about by a troll's club and it wouldn't have hurt any more.

"I suppose you've caught something from your siblings."

"No, ma'am. I've already had the measles."

Mrs. Williams raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly. "Whatever you say, dear."

Peter slumped further in the chair and fell asleep before The Macready arrived to pick him up.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I told you updates would come quicker now! Trying to write the transition between these two scenes was driving me nuts, so I just decided to leave it be; I hope it isn't too jarring as-is. Reviews are always much appreciated!


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